


take me back (to who we used to be)

by morganastone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crime Families, F/M, Going Away and Coming Back, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganastone/pseuds/morganastone
Summary: "Your eyes are all red."He spoke against her ear, his breath hot on her skin. Sansa closed her eyes. She'd been distracted with her brother and she missedhimcoming near her. And now he had her trapped, and she really wished she could just leave without speaking to him, but even after all this time he had a way of pulling her in, of making her let go of her convictions and surrender to his wishes."So?"Her voice was surprisingly strong, even if she felt as fragile as a crystal ornament, pretty and easily breakable. Before, she often wondered if he did this on purpose, if he was even aware of the power he held over her. If she turned her head his lips would brush her cheek. She remained staring forward, even as he spoke again.“That’s how you look when you’re about to cry. Or when you’ve been crying, but that's not the case here."
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84





	take me back (to who we used to be)

Sansa took a deep breath as she watched the dirt falling from between Jaime Lannister's fingers, a dul and unceremonious sound as it hit the lid of the lowered casket. His face was blank from emotion, green eyes absent, and he wiped his hand with a handkerchief as if it meant nothing to be standing in front of his father's casket. Cersei Lannister stood before him, her jaw stiff, her eyes hidden away by excessively large sunglasses, but she too acted as if the whole ordeal was nothing but a simple thing to be checked off her calendar. Sansa suspected it was all an act, but still, how did they manage? How could they show so little after losing someone so important? She did not understand, and she didn’t want to.

When her father died, Sansa cried for three days straight. She was only eighteen and still viewing the world with mostly naive eyes despite her family’s way of living. Ned Stark’s death changed that for her. She cried the most during the funeral, as his casket was being lowered into the ground. At that moment, it hit her that she would never see her father again, and her last memory of him would always be of a stone cold corpse lying inside a wooden box. He did not look asleep or peaceful, as people said he would. He looked dead, as simple as that, and he would be dead forever, and he would never talk again, never speak, never give her a hug, never take a single breath. He would rot, and then turn to dust and bones, until eventually there was nothing left of him, and no one would even remember who he was, or who she’d been, because she would also die one day, and rot, and stink, and turn to dust, and she would be forgotten, just as her father would, just as her whole family would, because all things were meant to be forgotten at some point. The thought upset her so much that she nearly fainted, body shaking life a dry leaf barely stuck to a tree, and in fact she would have, were it not for the strong pair of hands holding her steady through the entire service. 

The hands were now tucked away into pockets and the pockets belonged to the man standing next to Sansa’s brother, not too far from her, a man she hadn't seen in five years, a man whose hands she had come to know well, and love. Truly love, with all she had inside her, almost expecting nothing in return. And as if summoned by her thoughts, the man looked up, haunting grey eyes meeting her own, and Sansa looked away, to the endless hills of graves that stretched as far as she could see.

Why was she here again? She did not know.

(No, that was a lie. She did know, she just didn’t like it.)

It was her duty to her family that made her come. Even after all these years, part of her still felt as if she owed them something, as if denying them was the hardest thing she could ever do. It was hard for her to stand up for herself when it came to her family. The last time, the  _ only  _ time she did, it was drastic, and messy, and sad. And now they needed her, and she couldn’t bring herself to say no. 

So she came, and she was here, despite wanting to be anywhere else. 

Three days ago, her big brother had called, and she didn't pick up. That was just usually how it went. Robb Stark hardly called, and when he did, she wouldn't answer. It was easier this way. And it was fine, too. They would let her be, and she would stay out of the way, but always mindful of who she was, of what her name meant. She kept her distance and she played pretend, but she could never completely forget herself, no matter how hard she tried, and neither could they. So a day later, when her mother’s voice came up on the answering machine, Sansa knew something had happened. 

Catelyn Stark never called anymore. She never did anything, except for tending to the flowers from her garden at the old Stark House. Robb became head of the family as soon as their father died and Catelyn just let him handle things. Her mother had turned into a shell of herself, and the more time passed the more she faded away, lost to her flowers and her grief. But now she was calling, so Sansa had to call back. It was her mother asking, not just anyone.

_ Your brother needs you to come and show an united front. Family means everything, especially during difficult times. _

The memory burned in her mind as she watched the hills of the dead. There were graves for miles and miles and miles, old and new, all dark stones, stretching as far as the eye could see. She felt a bitter laugh stuck in her throat and tears stinging her eyes. Why was she crying? It couldn’t be from sadness, no, at least not over this. She didn't care for Tywin Lannister, or for any of them for that matter. She dated his grandson for a brief period of time when she was barely a teenager, and the experience had made her want nothing but distance from the lion's den. His death had meant nothing to her, but it seemed like her silly heart couldn't help but feel sorry for Cersei, having lost a son and a parent, one after the other. Or maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t been to this hill since her own father’s death. Ned was buried just a few graves away. And her mother was buried at home, still living, but dead in all the ways that mattered. Seeing loss today had reminded her of that, had reminded her of all the reasons she had to leave this place when she did, and the promises she made to not come back.

Sansa closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She didn't even want to be here. The last thing she needed was for them to see her tears.

The last time she'd been around any of these people was also at her father's funeral. Five years had passed since then. Five years that she managed to escape all this, five years since she turned her back on her family and on the life they led. They had been five great years, of freedom and learning, but they had also been lonely.

She’d been lonely.

A sudden touch on her shoulder made her turn around, startled, bringing her mind back to the present. A pair of blue eyes stared down at her, eyes that matched her own. Her brother’s grip was strong, but not hurting. Robb’s heavy hand was meant to be a comfort, she supposed, yet he’d never been good at such things. That was always her job, and for all she’d done for other people, she was quite terrible at comforting herself. 

"Are you alright?"

Westeros was big enough for her to not have to move away and still be able to escape her family. She hadn't spoken to Robb in a while, hadn’t seen him in even longer. Still, he'd sent a car to her flat this morning, to make sure she would come, to make sure she wouldn't bail on him.  _ Family means everything.  _ Was that still true to her? A part of her thought so, or she wouldn’t be here at all.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her voice would be shaky and she didn't want to deal with having to explain to her brother the reason why. Robb would think her weak, like he did when she left. Sometimes, late at night, in the dark, she would think the same.

He frowned at her, but didn’t push. “Thanks for coming today. It meant a lot to me.”

Sure it did, especially with their mother having stayed at home. They had an image to maintain, a reputation. The living-death of Catelyn Stark was one thing, but the eldest Stark daughter’s refusal of the family name? That was unacceptable. She had been getting a pass during these five years, but that seemed to be over now.

He squeezed her arm one more time, before turning to leave. If he noticed the tight smile she gave him, he didn’t say. As kids they were as close as they could be, but the more Robb grew, the more he pulled away from her. He had his reasons, she knew, but it still hurt. She watched him go, distancing himself from the graves and from her, until he reached Jaime Lannister, a hand on his shoulder, the grip firmer this time. Now that Tywin was dead, Jaime was head of the family, and that meant change in how things were done. No one liked that, but they all had to deal with it, asserting their own private agendas around each other. Sansa hated that even in a moment like this, where there should only be grief and respect, business was the recurring subject. She watched as her brother whispered something to the Lannister, their heads now bent together in secrecy.

"I don’t buy it."

It came from behind her, and for a moment, time stopped. The low timber of that voice, the strong accent, the whispered words. It took her back, to staring contests and lingering touches and allowing herself to be vulnerable with someone, and that one time, that one time where she drunkenly begged him, and all he did was place his jacket around her shoulders, before leaving her alone in the balcony. All these memories, these moments from forever ago, before her father dying, before she decided to leave everything behind. In the second that took her to catch her breath, she remembered it all, and as he spoke again she felt it, his presence overtaking her, limbs threatening to go numb as his chest brushed against her back.

"Your eyes are all red."

He spoke against her ear, his breath hot on her skin. Sansa closed her eyes. She'd been distracted with her brother and she missed  _ him  _ coming near her. And now he had her trapped, and she really wished she could just leave without speaking to him, but even after all this time he had a way of pulling her in, of making her let go of her convictions and surrender to his wishes.

"So?"

Her voice was surprisingly strong, even if she felt as fragile as a crystal ornament, pretty and easily breakable. Before, she often wondered if he did this on purpose, if he was even aware of the power he held over her. If she turned her head his lips would brush her cheek. She remained staring forward, even as he spoke again.

“That’s how you look when you’re about to cry. Or when you’ve been crying, but that's not the case here."

_ So he's been watching.  _ And the thought shouldn't excite her but it did, and she shouldn't want to face him, look him in the eye, see his face up close after five years, but she did. She had missed him every day and she had hated herself for it. And she also wished that he had left with her, even if she never got the courage to ask. 

Sansa turned back, looking up to the storm of his eyes, half angry and half hopeful, unable to hide how much his closeness affected her.

"Jon."

Her voice was hoarse and his name came out as a whisper. It had been a while since she said out loud, but it still felt familiar. His eyes lingered on her lips for a moment.

"Sansa."

She felt herself shiver. All he had to do was say her name. It had been like this before and it seemed to be the same now. Just say her name, and he had her ready to give in to anything he asked for.

Jon never asked. That had frustrated her immensely. Eventually, she lost hope. Or at least she thought she did, but a little part of her had always been waiting.

For him. She’d been waiting for him.

"You look good."

He did. He was all in black, same as everyone, but that had always been his color. His hair was shorter now, his beard longer. He looked more like a man than before, grey eyes hard, a somber way of carrying himself. Those five years had changed him, she could tell. 

She hoped it hadn’t been for the worse.

"And you look even more lovely."

His voice was matter of fact, and she felt her cheeks blush. This was another type of weakness, the way her body reacted to his words, to his praise. It left her exposed to him. Some might use it against her, but Jon never did.

That made her love him even more.

It was love, what she felt for him. She wasn't sure about it before, but with the distance, with experiencing other relationships, she could have no doubt about it. She loved Jon Snow. The boy he'd been during childhood and the young man he'd become upon joining her father and brother in the business. And she loved him now, despite not knowing this older, rougher version of him. Sansa didn't think it was possible for him to be someone that she couldn't love.

And she also wanted him.

Of that there was no doubt. She had wanted him from the moment she understood what it meant to want someone. She'd fancied him as a girl and she'd dreamt of him as a young woman. There had always been a pull, leading her to him, and today of all days she just didn't have the strength to fight it.

"It's good to see you."

The words escaped her. Her voice was small and silly. She felt herself get more flushed, and could only imagine by the way Jon smirked that he also noticed. She watched him reach for a smoke inside his pocket.

“I don’t buy that either.” He said, before placing the cigarette between his lips.

_ It is,  _ she wanted to argue. She also wanted to reach up and take the cigarette from him, to crush it under her foot, to ask him not to smoke again. It wasn’t guns or violence that had taken her father’s life. It was cancer. But Jon knew this. He had been there, he had seen it. He sat by Ned Stark’s hospital bed, watching him whiter, and he held her through the funeral as she crumbled and he knew that she would be going away even if she never got the courage to tell him. She never knew how he had guessed, but he did. It was all over his eyes when they last spoke, the certainty that it would be the last time, at least in a while.

She wondered if he also knew that she would come back. 

Sansa didn’t speak, just stared at him, quietly, while he blew the smoke away from her face. He kept his eyes on her, and she couldn’t look away. They stood together, unaware of the people moving away from the freshly dug grave, unaware that the whispers had already started, about Robb Stark’s sister and his right hand man, whispers that already existed even before Sansa had turned eighteen. It would’ve made sense for Ned Stark to wed his eldest daughter to Jon Snow, and finally give him the Stark name, when he was already a vital part of the family. Her father never talked to her about his, and neither had Jon, but she knew, because people talked, and she listened. Whispers had a way of spilling too fast, and she knew. And she wanted it to be true. So she waited. Then her father died and she left and five years went by and now she was back, still waiting it seemed, for Jon Snow to give her any inclination of what he actually wanted. (Of who he wanted.)

The whispers returned now, of course, because it would make sense for Robb Stark to give Snow the family name. Blood is thicker than water, yes, but if you weren’t born into a family you could always join them by marriage. So people would whisper, surely, of seeing Sansa Stark again after five years, of seeing her look so mesmerized by Jon Snow, even when they were standing just a few feet away from Tywin's grave. They would whisper about what it meant to have her back and they would whisper about the possibility of the Starks coming together again, stronger now, even after Ned’s death. And that was dangerous.

Rumors were always dangerous.

None of that mattered, though, at least not to her, as Jon started moving, dropping his gaze. Sansa was surprised to see him crush what was left of the cigarette with his foot. Time seemed to pass faster when she was in his presence. 

It was easy to get lost in his eyes.

“Shall we go, then?”

His voice startled her. “What?”

“I’m taking you home,” he said, as if it was obvious. As if had been his plan all along, for them to leave together.

“Why?”

_ Because I’ve missed you.  _ He would never say it, but she hoped for it. She hoped for any acknowledgement that he might have felt as lonely as she did during all the time they were apart. Her heart kept drumming in her chest for all the seconds it took him to answer.

“Because your brother asked me to.”

A punch in her gut, that’s what his words felt like. So it was an assignment. This conversation, him coming to see her, talk to her, it was all an assignment. A job her brother had trusted him to do. One of the many jobs he’d have to do for the rest of his life, for as long as he was a part of this, a part of everything she had chosen to leave behind.

“I can get myself home, but thanks.”

She turned from him, already looking ahead. She would not be something he had to deal with, she would not allow herself to be in that position, a thing to be handled. She would also not be an asset to her brother, no matter if that meant only seeing Jon again at the next big funeral.

(And by God she hoped it wasn’t his own.)

The hand on her wrist made her stop. Firm grip, warm palm, rough skin. She knew that hand, she knew how it felt to be touched by it, by him. Jon was at her back again, whispering in her ear before she had time to think.

“Don’t be difficult, Sans. Please. Not today of all days.”

_ Please.  _ She had never heard him say that word. Not to her, not to her father, not to anyone. Jon Snow didn’t beg. He was cold, he was angry, he was many things. But he never begged, and he hardly asked permission. Yet here he was, touching her after five years, and whispering to her,  _ asking,  _ not telling, that today was not a good day to act so tough. That there were too many eyes watching them, watching her, even if she had forgotten for a moment where she was and who she was with.

“Fine,” she said, surrendering.  _ Take me, Jon. Take me anywhere you want to, anywhere but here. Take me far away and don’t leave me. _

He stepped to the side, his hand dropping from her wrist to intertwine their fingers. She felt incredibly small next to him, but safe, safer than she’d been while she was away. He didn’t bother looking at her while they walked towards the cars and the people, didn’t acknowledge the feel of her skin against his, or her short steps trying to match up to his, but he kept his hold on her hand the entire time, and she let him lead her through wolves and lions and all the dangers that awaited them in this life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
